Gwyneth Atlee Page 8

  The man’s friend slept nearby, his emaciated body partially wrapped around the empty basket Yvette had left.

  Even now, as she neared her stateroom, she could barely believe that a man—a Yankee—who had almost nothing would fight to protect her reticule. Before leaving, she’d brushed her lips across his rough cheek. In her gratitude, she forgot to worry about whatever vermin his thicket of a beard might harbor.

  First Gabriel and now this ragged stranger. Perhaps Yankees varied in their natures just as much as Southern men. Or perhaps war brought out the worst in all men, she thought, too conscious of the fact that her own people had clearly starved these soldiers.

  Was it possible, now that this war was ending, that reason would return and battered hearts could heal?

  Perhaps hope blinded her to danger, or perhaps it was only some combination of the late hour, the dim light, and the attention required to pick a pathway through the midst of so many sleeping soldiers. Whatever the cause, as Yvette moved toward the entrance to the main cabin, she nearly ran headlong into the one Yankee that no truce would ever compel her to forgive.

  Her fingers clutched spasmodically at the black reticule, which she held tight against her waist. Yvette felt her limbs begin to tremble, but she could not make them run. Her jaw dropped, but neither word nor scream would come. She was too aware of the Union officers inside the main cabin only steps away, officers who would be quickly drawn by any outburst, who would surely take this murderer’s side against her.

  His hand clamped firmly on her upper arm, yet Yvette barely felt the throbbing pressure points of thumb and fingers. All she could think of was the reticule that she was clutching and the folded letter sewn into its lining. Whatever happened, she must not let Darien Russell find it there.

  “Strange that I don’t hear you laughing now. But perhaps this time you’re the object of amusement. You’ve led me quite a merry chase, Yvette.” His voice ran dark and low, as if he, too, had no wish to draw attention to their conversation.

  She jerked her arm free, breaking his grip through sheer determination. “Take your filthy hand off me, murderer!” she hissed.

  “If I’m not very much mistaken, you’re the one who’s charged with murder, Miss Augeron.”

  Frustrated by an urge to slap the smugness off his face, she gripped the handle of her reticule even harder.

  “Killing you would have been worth whatever punishment they gave me, but I have no intention of hanging for your crimes, Captain.” She infused the last word with all the contempt she felt, all the wounded pride that had prompted her to invent insulting songs and paint General Butler’s face in several dozen chamber pots.

  He flinched, and she could swear she felt how much he ached to throttle her, the same way he had choked her pliant sister. Instead, he moved forward, backing her closer to the door.

  “Just remember you did kill them,” he said. “You killed both of them!”

  “Can’t a fella get a drink here? You’re blockin’ th’way, Cap.” A soldier slurred the words behind Russell.

  Yvette’s gaze rode over the sharp angle of the captain’s shoulder. Drunk or not, the voice sounded familiar. Hope unfurled inside her when she recognized Gabe’s face. No alcohol dulled his expression. Instead, he looked grimly expectant. Did he mean to provoke Russell?

  Darien glanced over his shoulder. “You again!” He spat the words, as derisive as Yvette had sounded. “What must I do to teach you some respect?”

  “Dunno, how ’bout . . . this!” Gabe dropped his shoulder, then launched himself into Russell’s side.

  Caught off balance, the captain went down heavily.

  Yvette took the opportunity to run, thanking God for Gabe’s distraction. She picked her way rapidly among soldiers lounging on the deck. A few shouted rude questions or comments at her haste, but no one tried to stop her. With her heart thundering her panic, she pounded toward her stateroom’s outer door. Shaking as she was, she could barely fit the key inside the lock. She expected at any moment strong arms to grab her from behind. But none did, and somehow, on the third try, she opened the door and rushed inside, then closed and quickly locked it.

  “Mew?” Lafitte’s cry sounded as confused as she felt.

  Yvette put her back to the door, then slid down it till she sat. As if her presence could prevent a man of Russell’s size from entering.

  As she waited, trembling, she tried to imagine how Gabe had divined her need, her terror. How much had he overheard?

  But with a beast like Russell on her trail, it was impossible to worry about what Gabe knew or thought. Guiltily, she thought of what he’d risked by striking an officer. She might be safe now, but what of him?

  If he were arrested, how could she dare help him? And if she did nothing, could she live with that guilt, too?

  * * *

  “Where did she go?” Russell demanded. His hands grasped the insolent private’s shoulders, and he tried to shake him as a terrier might a rat.

  Gabe, however, stood his ground and watched surprise steal across Russell’s features. Gabe’s strength was quite a change for someone who only moments ago had given the impression he was drunk.

  “Didn’t see her, Captain,” Gabe answered clearly. “I was too busy helping you up from the floor. Sorry about knocking you off your feet like that. I got a little dizzy there for a moment. Didn’t mean to stumble into you.”

  “You want this man placed under guard?” a voice came from his left, and Gabe looked up—and into Seth Harris’s gray eyes. Apparently, his friend had come looking when he hadn’t returned to the hurricane deck.

  Captain Russell glanced at Seth and nodded stiffly. “Is he your responsibility?”

  “Unfortunately,” Seth answered. “I don’t know how he does it, but he always finds himself a bottle. Maybe someday he’ll get the knack of drinking without acting the part of a damned fool.”

  Gabe lowered his gaze in an attempt to look contrite. Really, he was suppressing a smile of gratitude at Seth’s lie. He’d certainly have some explaining to do, but he felt confident his friend wouldn’t arrest him.

  “You better keep him out of my way,” Russell ordered, glaring at Seth. “Otherwise, I’ll have the both of you brought up on charges. Is that understood?”

  Gabe’s glance jerked upward. If there was one thing Seth Harris hated, it was high-handedness from other officers. As he expected, Seth adjusted his cracked spectacles. His spine, too, straightened, emphasizing every inch of his six feet two inches. At the moment, he didn’t much look the part of the logical professor.

  “They didn’t strip me of my rank when I was captured, Captain.” The harshness in Seth’s voice iced the evening air. “I’ll thank you to remember that when you’re addressing me.”

  Russell said nothing for several moments. Instead, he glared steadily at both Seth and Gabe, as if he were committing both of them to memory.

  Finally, after far too long a pause, he said, “Just keep this soldier quiet—and well away from me—and we’ll have no cause for unpleasantness . . . Captain.”

  With that, he spun crisply on his heel and strode off—thankfully, in the opposite direction of the one that Eve had taken.

  Not Eve, Gabe corrected himself. Yvette. He’d have to keep that in mind.

  Seth looked at him curiously. “What the hell was that about?” Gabe nodded. “I sort of hit him, sir.”

  Seth shook his head disapprovingly. “Don’t give me that ‘sir’ routine. We’re way past that, Gabe. So, did you hit the pretentious bastard on purpose?”

  “I did.”

  Seth stared at him, considering. “I thought you’d given up trying to prove yourself against every jackass that has it coming.”

  “It was more than that, Seth. He was troubling a lady passenger who’d just done me a good turn.”

  Seth’s eyebrows rose. “Not that little beauty you were admiring earlier? That Rebel gal?”

  Gabe shrugged the answer, ignoring the objection
in his friend’s tone.

  “I’m not happy with it, Gabe, but I suppose that’s better than what I’d imagined,” the captain said. “I figured you’d maybe run into those Ohio boys.”

  “I did. And I’m likely to again if I don’t get back upstairs.”

  “Then by all means let’s go. You can tell me about it up there.”

  “I want to check on her first. I think he may have hurt her,” Gabe said. “I’ll explain what happened later.”

  “Stay out of this, Gabe. You need to concentrate on keeping out of trouble, getting home. Think logically. Or if you can’t do that, think about that beefsteak you keep dreaming on and not some girl with every reason in the world to hate you. Let’s go back upstairs.”

  “Is that an order?”

  Irritation flashed across Seth’s features. He shook his head. “Just good advice. Why don’t you take it?”

  “You’ve got this wrong. I’m not looking for trouble. I just need to see her for a moment. I have to.” He wanted to explain what she’d done tonight to prevent him from being pitched overboard unconscious, but he had to keep it to himself. Otherwise, Seth’s “good advice” would definitely become an order.

  “You want me to go with you?” the captain finally offered.

  “Three’s a crowd,” Gabe said.

  Seth frowned. “Sometimes I think you’re hell-bent on getting yourself killed. I don’t want to hear that you’ve been in another fight, especially not over her. Use your head. Remember this girl’s a Southerner. Expect little; trust less.”

  As Seth headed for the boat’s stern and, presumably, the stairway, Gabriel thought on his last statement: “Expect little; trust less.” Seth had told him those same words after he’d arrived at Andersonville. As long as Gabe had remained there, that advice made sense, maybe even helped keep him alive. But now he deliberately cast aside the notion, the same way he’d discarded the vermininfested rags of his imprisonment.

  He was a free man now, and the hellish war was over. Despite what he had done before, what he had suffered, Gabe intended to start expecting more. Maybe he could even risk a little trust.

  But not on this Yvette. In the wake of everything that had happened, he didn’t have trust enough to squander on a woman who had lied about her name.

  * * *

  Yvette sat quivering against the outer door. Before her, Lafitte tumbled and leapt, as if trying to distract her from her frantic breathing and her pulsebeats, which hammered like woodpeckers at both temples. Instead of succeeding, the kitten’s antics annoyed her. Couldn’t the rascal settle down and let her think of what to do?

  It was no use, anyway, she realized. She rubbed at her arms, where Russell had exerted bruising pressure. How could she concentrate when his furious face kept flashing in her vision? How could she plan what to do while she worried that at any moment he might find her?

  Still, snatches of ideas raced around her mind, most too swift to capture and examine. She might abandon her room and hide somewhere, perhaps among the cargo she’d seen loaded in New Orleans and Vicksburg. Or she could jump overboard with some piece of wood to float her out of danger. Perhaps, instead, she ought to find another Union officer and tell what she knew about Darien Russell and his ring of Yankee thieves. But each idea seemed more hopeless than the last until her vision blurred with welling tears.

  A faint knock sent her hand flying to cover her own mouth lest she scream and give herself away. If she could only remain quiet, perhaps he wouldn’t be certain she was in here. Maybe he wasn’t even sure this was her room.

  Hope faded as she realized that certain or not, Darien Russell wouldn’t rest until he had the chance to look inside. She wondered how long it would take him to find a crewman with a key to let him in and how in God’s name she could hope to escape him if that happened.

  * * * Had she fled already? And if so, to where?

  Gabe tapped once more, slightly louder. His voice rose just above a whisper. “It’s Gabe Davis. Let me in.”

  A moment passed and then another. Though he thought he might hear some movement in the stateroom, he could not be sure. Go away, the voice of caution whispered. The longer he dallied, the greater his chances of running into either Captain Russell or Silas Deming and his friends.

  He’d return to his spot on the crowded upper deck and stay there for the duration of the journey. He ought to feel relieved that he wouldn’t have to worry about this Yvette’s problems. But instead, disappointment washed over him. As foolish as it was, he’d wanted to see her again, to hear her softly accented voice, intelligence sparkling behind each word, to feel her gentle touch once more upon his hand. Longing overwhelmed him as he remembered how she’d felt when he had kissed her, and hunger rose, unstoppable as the river flooding past its banks.

  And so he knocked one final time, and at last the door cracked open.

  “Get away from here!” Her voice hissed through the narrow gap.

  “Did he hurt you?” Gabe whispered.

  Her breath puffed out, loud with her exasperation. The gap widened, and she pulled him inside. As soon as he had cleared the opening, she closed and locked the door.

  “No, but he most certainly will if you stand out there pounding on my door.” Anger punctuated her words, but still, she kept her voice low, as if she feared someone would hear. “Why didn’t you just leave?”

  Her eyes belied the abruptness of the question. In them, Gabe glimpsed something like relief. Whatever her trouble, she wasn’t all that eager to face it on her own.

  “I couldn’t,” he said, though the words did not explain his action, even to himself.

  She seemed to accept them nonetheless. The anger in her voice faded to concern. “Did he hurt you?”

  “He didn’t, though I expect that he would like to,” Gabe told her. “I overheard him near the bow. He was asking about a girl with your description . . . Yvette.”

  She tilted back her head, her chin jutting forward, as if she could master her emotions with a show of pride. “I had no choice except to give a false name. I am Yvette Augeron. My family always called me Yvie. ‘Eve’ is not so very different.”

  “Why? The captain said you were wanted for some crime. Something serious. But I couldn’t imagine you—” He shook his head, wondering if he’d been wrong. When he’d kissed her, she’d felt so delicate, so fragile. But now, as before, he saw every indication that she had a spine of steel.

  Even so, he remembered her compassion. Clearly, Yvette was a jewel with many facets. “You helped me earlier,” he explained. “I figured I owed you at least the warning. But when I saw the way he grabbed you . . .”

  “Now you have repaid the favor, Gabriel. You helped me out of a difficult situation, just as I helped you.” She looked away from him, but not before he saw moisture gleaming in the corners of her eyes. “You owe me nothing more.”

  Ignoring the dismissal in her words, Gabe said, “Yes, I do. You listened to my story. It helped so much to share it. Tell me, Yvette, what’s happening to you?”

  She glared at him for just a moment, then dropped into the room’s sole chair. The kitten pounced onto her lap and curled into a ball. Gabe could hear his purring as she stroked him gently. Like Lafitte, Yvette seemed to have drawn into herself, for she neither looked at him nor said a word in answer.

  Gabe sat on the berth’s edge, as he had before. Remembering their kiss, he felt a strong ripple of desire, but once again he reminded himself that Seth was right. Nothing good could come of a relationship with a Southern woman.

  If he had any sense, he’d leave now. He’d done the gentlemanly thing by offering to listen. That freed him of his obligation, didn’t it?

  Just as he’d decided to get up, Yvette took a deep breath. “All right, Monsieur Davis. I accept the offer of your ears.”

  Without further prelude, she began. “Captain Russell is an evil man.”

  He stared at her, studying the way her gaze kept flicking from one door to the other, as
if her words might conjure up the appearance of her enemy. Though she had paused, he said nothing, sensing that if he, too, quickly filled the silence, she would not continue.

  Yvette’s gaze lost its wariness, and her brows beetled with anger. “He has used this war for his own profit— and, worse yet, we let him.”

  “Who do you mean, we?” Gabe ventured.

  “The Creole families of New Orleans, at least the ones who took the oath. You may not know this, but when the Yankees captured our city, men like my father were given a choice: swear loyalty to the Union or lose their businesses, their homes . . . everything.”

  He tried to imagine his own father faced with such a difficult decision. With his wife and daughters to support, even Flint Maxwell Davis might be forced to swallow back his pride.

  Yvette continued. “My father was one who chose the oath, but it made him unpopular, even in our home, I’m afraid. So when Captain Russell came along, casting himself as a better sort than the other Union officers, Papa took him up on his offer of friendship. Russell beguiled Papa with his talk of operas and French literature. And I believe, after a time, that he began offering my father advice of a financial sort.”

  She shook her head, and her hazel eyes flashed anger. “Papa barely seemed to notice how one Creole family after another was falling into ruin—every one of whom had some association with this man or his friend Major Stolz.”

  “Sometimes we see only what we wish to,” Gabe offered, but he was wondering how many on both sides had used this war to steal.

  “Captain Russell even convinced Papa he had honorable intentions toward my sister, Marie,” Yvette continued. “And Papa encouraged the relationship, though he well knew no decent Creole man would ever offer for Marie if it was learned she’d entertained a Yankee caller.”

  Bitterness edged Yvette’s words. Perhaps it made her head ache, too, for she raised her hand from Lafitte to press her thumb and forefinger just above each eyebrow. The kitten rose, arched his back, and yawned, his pink mouth contrasting with his tiny ivory fangs. Gabe looked away in hopes the kitten would keep to its own place.